Raul's head bobbed up and down. He agreed.
A gust of wind pelted rain into the window. Mikhail grabbed his sable coat and cap. Rain here could be as cold as in St. Petersburg.
"WAIT HERE." MIKHAIL did not know this taxi driver, so he did not pay him yet. He'd have to wait for a quick stop at the mail wharf. He placed one foot on the wharf and found the doors closed. It was too early in the morning. He climbed back into the taxi. "Take me up to the Olympic Club Gym."
The taxi got up to the club quickly and Mikhail climbed out, holding money up for the driver.
The driver grabbed the money. "You're him, ain't you? That Russian count who shot Tommy Chandler?"
"He shot himself."
"That's not what I read in the paper."
"You must read the Sunday Times."
The driver's thin smile confirmed this.
About fifty men waited outside the club in drizzling rain and cold. They all seemed to know Mikhail, nudging one another, talking low.
Mikhail walked into the middle of them.
The regular doorman opened the front door and stepped aside.
Mikhail led the crowd through the locker room and into the gymnasium. They quickly split into smaller groups; men who already knew each other.
Mikhail had seen some of them before, but he knew none of their names. He couldn't remember any of them ever having visited the Palace. None held membership to the Olympic Club. None lived at the White Chapel Saloon. Many of them glanced at Mikhail, speaking softly to one another.
Mikhail stood apart, not interested to hear if they were talking about him.
When Colonel William Tell Coleman, Abe Warner, John Downey, and John Drury entered the gymnasium, the fifty or so men formed into three lines, a staggered formation suggesting some small measure of military training.
Mikhail remained apart.
Coleman smiled at Mikhail and made eye contact with many of the men. "Men, thank you for coming.
"I contacted the commanders of all three of this city's militia units yesterday. I've asked them to call their individual units and the local California Guard to arms. I made this move to retard any efforts by the governor to call you to arms against us, as we are once again forming the Committee of Vigilance."
Some of the men grumbled uncomfortably. Others quickly silenced them.
"I don't care about your political affiliations," said Coleman. "When a man like James King of William is gunned down in broad daylight simply for publishing the truth in this city's leading journal, there is a need to take action. This man, James Casey, a proven felon from a New York State Prison, shot King down, while knowing that King was unarmed.
"James Casey is a member of the county commission and has affiliated himself with the Law and Order Party, a party known for suppressing opposition votes and controlling the vote count at many precincts, thus insuring perpetual power for their party.
"This same James Casey, because of his political affiliations, has not yet been indicted. He and Charlie Cora, the murderer of U.S. Marshal William Richardson, are hold up in the city jail under the protection of the chief of police, a loyal member of the Law and Order Party.
"The California Guardsmen, at my request, have taken control of the Presidio, where there are ample arms stored, including three modern Howitzers. They have also taken charge of a federal shipment of arms intended for their, and your, eventual use."
Coleman took a step toward Mikhail and extended his arm. "Here with us today is the man who was with James King of William when he was shot. Some of us know him as Count Mike, some as Mike Zabel, and some of us know him as the new middleweight champion of this city, this state, this nation, and, quite possibly, the world. He is a Russian nobleman whose real name is impossible for me to pronounce, much less remember." Coleman smiled at Mikhail. "It is not unimportant to note that this noble gentleman has served the czars of Russia as the commander of an artillery battalion. He assures me he can punch a cannonball straight through the steel door at the city jail, if need be."
Mikhail nodded. This could easily be done from one thousand meters.
"Abe Warner," Coleman placed a hand on Warner's shoulder, ". . . owner of the Palace on Meigg's Wharf, and myself, are calling for volunteers from the general population.
"Charles Gelberding, the publisher of the Evening Bulletin, will be running ads every day, calling for volunteers. We are also asking all of you to help in this drive.
"I need not tell you how well liked is James King of William." Coleman waved his hand in the air, pointing uphill. "He lies up there in his apartment, surrounded by his loving wife and six children, fighting for his very life.
"It's high time to bring a sense of peace and safety back into this community. When such people as a U.S. marshal, brought here to investigate the corruption of this city's elections, and a well-loved newspaper editor can be shot down in cold blood and those guilty are not held accountable, it's time for vigilance, and we shall have it, out in the open and with proper concern for justice—a more deliberate justice than now exists in this horribly corrupted city."
A tangible sense of purpose filled the room.
"Many of you served on the Committee of Vigilance in '51 and complained about the lack of means to identify ourselves. This time, we are minting three thousand bronze medallions. One side will show Justicia, the ancient Roman goddess of justice. She carries a balance scale in one hand and a long sword in the other. This lady will not wear a blindfold, as we are not blind to our clear duty. 'Be Just' and 'Fear Not' will be inscribed above, and 'San Francisco, California' will be inscribed below. On the bottom of the back side, we'll write, 'Organized 9th June 1851, Reorganized 14th May 1856.' At the top, in bold letters, we'll put, 'Committee of Vigilance.'
"Each medallion will have its own number, from one through three thousand. We're still thinking about a possible symbol for the back."
Mikhail raised his hand, thinking of Masonic symbols.
"Yes, Count?"
"What about the all-seeing eye of God? This should keep us mindful of social discipline; of our benevolent responsibilities to our fellow man."
"Good idea." Coleman looked around at the others. "Any objections?"
Nobody objected.
"Okay. The design is set. The medallions will be cast over at James King's bank."
Perfect!
Jim had minted his own coinage before prompting the state to create a state currency.
Coleman said, "They will be passed out at the Presidio as each volunteer signs up.
"Now, here to talk to you about what the governor is doing, I'll give over to John Downey of the State Assembly."
Downey stepped forward and cleared his throat, uncomfortable, maybe collecting some thoughts. He stared at Mikhail as he spoke. "J. Neely Johnson, being closely affiliated with this local group of scoundrels, being himself a loyal Democrat, has summoned a ship of U.S. Marines. They now stand offshore on a U.S. Naval vessel. We think they'll be slow to act in this local matter, but will be standing by in case of a general insurrection or rioting. The governor has also called the state militias to arms under the command of General W. T. Sherman, who is no doubt bitter over the defection of his own local guard unit.
"His command is stationed over at Oakland, ready to board ferries. We, therefore, feel it prudent to seize the ferry ports on this side to discourage their possible crossing.
"Make no mistake, gentlemen—this is no light matter we are entering into. All of you may, in the near future, be charged with desertion or even treason."
Grumbling quickly grew to arguments, with men shoving one another; some shouting the name of James King.
Coleman shoved Downey aside, angered by their shouting. "Men, fall in. Come to attention."
The arguments dissipated as they reformed three lines and faced Coleman.
Coleman said, "There is little chance that any of you, or any of this city's volunteers, will be charged with any such crimes. Quite the cont
rary. I suspect history will hold this committee in good favor.
"We will assemble on the grounds of the Presidio at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow. Weapons will be distributed and training initiated. Whatever is needed will be delivered." He looked from face to face, in command. "Dismissed."
The formation broke apart and a few of the men gathered around Mikhail, taking turns shaking his hand. One said, "Is it true that you shot Chandler in the hand? I mean, I saw him fight John Tatum out on North Beach." This man could not believe Mikhail might defeat Chandler in a fair fight.
"That swill comes from the pages of the Sunday Times." Abe Warner stood at Mikhail's left side. "Was that villain James Casey wrote that falsehood. I know. I was there. The fight took place at the Palace. After being thoroughly thumped by my good friend here . . ." Abe put his hand on Mikhail’s shoulder. "Tommy Chandler pulled a derringer from his boot and, in his haste, shot his nearby friend in the leg. In the short wrestling match that followed, with Chandler trying to put one into Mike, Chandler shot himself in the hand."
Those around Mikhail chuckled, some slapping his back, some shaking hands. After an embarrassing minute, Abe pulled Mikhail aside and said, "Jim's been asking for you."
A SMALLER CROWD OF well-wishers lined the sidewalk outside James King's apartment building, a large number considering the cold rain. They'd packed the entry hall and stairs, giving way and smiling at Mikhail. He knew none of their names.
The door to Jim's apartment stood open. Charlotte saw him, smiled, and ushered him in. "He's been asking for you."
"How is he?"
"He's weak, but he's in good spirits."
"Count Mike!" Jim sounded strong and vigorous, propped up by a stack of pillows. His swollen shoulder had turned purple above a clean, tightly wrapped bandage, painful to look at.
Jim's close friend, Dr. Richard Cole, sat nearby, reading the latest issue of the Bulletin. He stood and slid his chair closer to the bed, offering it to Mikhail. He and Jim's family moved into the dining room and closed the pocket doors, leaving them alone in the parlor.
Jim's overall color and smile appeared healthy.
"You look well. Let us go and toss the medicine ball."
"Sit." Jim smiled and pointed to the chair. "The Bulletin says they're reorganizing the Committee of Vigilance."
Mikhail sat. "We held our first meeting this morning at the Club."
"I hope this isn't about me."
"No, Jim." Mikhail had never been good at lying.
"Not that this city doesn't need some cleaning up. The Law and Order Party is as corrupt a bunch of villains as I've seen, and I'm from the nation's capitol. What irony." He smiled. "How many volunteers?"
"Colonel Coleman assembled the leaders of the city's three militia units, about fifty in all, and the local unit of the state guard took control of the Presidio. They've seized a shipment of arms from the federal government. These are intended for the local militias anyway. And, they've taken control of the ferry landings.
"The governor has appointed General Sherman to lead the rest of the state guard. They've assembled across the bay in Oakland."
"Sounds more organized than back in '51. Back then, of course, we were dealing with gangs of troublemakers and arsonists, mostly convicts from Australia. We weren't dealing with elected officials or any government authority. There were seven hundred of us, and that was plenty." He squirmed and turned a little, trying to ease his discomfort. His eyes narrowed. "I don't think that will be enough, this time. The Bulletin reports a detachment of Marines are standing by in the bay."
"Coleman is casting three thousand bronze medallions so we can identify ourselves." Mikhail smiled, stabbing at humor. "We might otherwise shoot ourselves."
Jim did not laugh. He grimaced from pain.
"You'll be happy to know, we're using the machinery at your bank to cast the medallions."
"Is Coleman going to pay me for the use?" Jim's eyes sparkled with wit, his voice straining from pain.
"I shall deliver a demand for payment. How much should it be?"
"I think ten dollars per coin should do nicely." Jim's smile faded. No more jokes. "What about those Marines?"
"The colonel does not believe they will come ashore. They are happy to leave this as a local matter. I think this is probable, unless they see signs of rioting or destructive disorder."
"With three thousand men, properly armed and organized, we should be able to maintain civil order. When do they officially start to move?"
"We assemble at the Presidio tomorrow morning at 8:00."
The doors behind Mikhail opened. Dr. Cole and Charlotte were returning. Cole said, "That's enough for today, Jim. You need your rest."
Mikhail stood and stepped out of the way for Charlotte and the doctor to turn Jim and rearrange his pillows.
"Mike." Jim sounded tired. "Thanks for coming. Come back soon. We still have that other thing to discuss."
I don't care about that now.
Chapter Sixteen
Since Christmas Eve more than a year ago, Colonel Vladimir Schardakava-Preslova had not been farther than shouting distance from the Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaievich.
Getting the grand duke back to Moscow had been a frightful journey through deep, frozen snow, a typically cold winter. If the grand duke had died, the Czar would certainly have blamed Vlad and not his brother Nikolai. A Romanov could never be blamed for anything, except by another Romanov.
Under the care of the czar's Moscow physicians, the grand duke had recovered quickly. When sufficiently recovered, he'd personally taken charge of Vlad's prisoner, the Baron Igor Diebitsch-Zabalkansky.
The grand duke enjoyed himself in this type of business, as if the baron's pain could somehow reach his nephew, Major, the Count Mikhail Diebitsch-Zabalkansky.
The baron had foolishly held out against the grand duke, even though everyone knew he could not have possibly known of his nephew's exact location. His hours of suffering had been pointless. Had he spoken earlier, his life of service to no less than three czars would have guaranteed a merciful death. His family's long service preceded the Romanov Dynasty. The Diebitsch-Zabalkansky family had been well loved by the empire, until now.
A long history of loyal service meant nothing to the grand duke. He'd taken special steps to keep the baron alive in order to deliver more pain.
The baron had been certain of his eventual death and had stubbornly refused to break. They had gained nothing, not even the name of a ship, not even whether his nephew had escaped by sea. Not even if his nephew had died from the gunshot wound.
It had been the Lady Catherin's idea to send letters to every port city known to be served by vessels from the Port of Vladivostok.
During the year that followed the amputation of his right hand, the grand duke had trained daily with his left hand, both shooting pistols and with the sword. His angry shouts to find the count had become a palace-wide nuisance. In his frustration, he'd often been impatient, shooting at anyone who might be standing nearby. The servants had scattered on the first such occasion and had been shy to serve him since. The grand duke did not seem to care.
The colonel had judiciously attended to other matters until after such tirades had subsided, waiting for the grand duke to retire to his daily rounds of vodka.
On January 15, 1855, Colonel Igor Schardakava-Preslova had officially charged Major, the Count Mikhail Diebitsch-Zabalkansky, with desertion in the face of the enemy, a crime punishable by death. The czar himself had signed the warrant and the grand duke had made it clear by whose hand the count's life should end. Only the left hand of the grand duke himself would be used to end the life of Major, the Count Mikhail Diebitsch-Zabalkansky.
Only a Romanov could make the arrest. Without the grand duke's caveat, anybody would be allowed to kill the count. However, under the laws of the czars, only a Romanov could arrest him.
How stupid.
They'd received the return notice from San Francisco on February 24, 1856. On F
ebruary 26, they'd boarded the royal coach for St. Petersburg. The train had arrived on February 27 and they'd booked passage for four to Portsmouth the following day.
Vlad had handpicked their two companions, both volunteers from the czar's secret police, both specialists at locating fugitives. If the count had gone into the California gold fields, he would be found and brought back to San Francisco. If he'd remained in San Francisco, finding him should be easy.
HMS Great Britain had departed Portsmouth on March 2, a wooden hulled vessel with three masts and twin boilers driving side-mounted paddles, a modern ship built for speed. They'd reached New York on March 20 in the middle of the night. Vlad had booked passage the next morning on SS Empire City, not sailing until March 25.
This had given them four days in New York City—four days of howling from the grand duke, as if Vlad had somehow been responsible for an unnecessary delay. Vlad had escaped the tantrums by spending time in the parlors of New York, speaking with investors and businessmen about the vast array of opportunities in the Americas.
How could these people possibly believe such foolishness, business dealings without the wisdom and guidance of a sovereign lord? Vlad knew none of these investment schemes would amount to anything. They were merely diversions to escape the grand duke's unending rage.
It must have been a hundred times while crossing the Atlantic, usually speaking in English, that the grand duke had shouted at Vlad, "Why do these steamships leave their sails furled? Would not wind increase our speed?" The English captain had, of course, heard his rants. It was the very reason the grand duke had spoken in English.
"Your Highness," Vlad had patiently explained in a hundred different ways, "the sails are used if the steam engines might fail, or if we have a trailing wind, which we have not. Otherwise, we would be pushed about by the wind or heeled over, bringing one of the paddlewheels out of the water and swamping the other. With steam, your highness, we can chart a direct course at a higher rate of speed."
Finally, on March 25, they'd boarded SS Empire City at 7:12 a.m., though she'd not been scheduled to depart before noon. Empire City had been newer and more elegant than HMS Great Britain.
DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way Page 15